


They Watch From Above

by notitlesapply



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Lovecraftian, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suspense, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-06-25 11:35:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19744930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notitlesapply/pseuds/notitlesapply
Summary: The year is 1950. Jack, a retired Soviet marine, is having trouble adjusting to life in by the peaceful sea, and his dreams are still haunted by the horrors of war. All he sees before him is a life of slow decay in silence and solitude.Things change when the nightmares begin to be replaced with visions of a tall mysterious man.Written for the Reaper76 RBB





	1. Coin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JolBalrok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JolBalrok/gifts).



> I was teamed up with the super talented[ JolBalrok](https://jolbalrok.tumblr.com/) for the Reaper76 RBB! Please check out the amazing artwork that goes with this fic:  
> [Here](https://jolbalrok.tumblr.com/post/186170264745/i-took-part-in-the-reaper76bigbang-this-year-and)
> 
> This story is complete. I will be posting a chapter a day until the whole thing is up.

There was a small town located by the sea in the old Soviet Union. It was a place of no particular importance. It was a small place and far out of the way, easily forgotten by the leaders in Moscow. It boasted nothing of great interest, and the people living there liked it that way. The only thing of note was the old lighthouse on the coast. Every day was the same. Mundane. Normal. They liked it that way with no one bothering them or getting into their business.

And yet, beneath the still mirror-like surface the town cultivated, there existed a whisper, a rumor, about the lighthouse at the shore's edge.

They say a man who didn't exist lived there, sleeping in the dark, dreaming of the light. Sometimes you could hear his voice. It's the groaning of the dock beneath your feet, the breaking of waves across worn stone, and the whispering shift of the sand. You can see his face there too in the emptiness between the stars, the flotsam that washes ashore, and sea (always, _always_ the sea).

But that was just a story.

–

When Jack Morrison arrived in the sleepy seaside town, nearly every tongue wagged. Change was unusual, so a newcomer was easily the talk of the town. The townspeople spoke in hushed voices behind their hands. They whispered of his too stiff posture, and unsmiling face. They tutted over the scars that sliced over his face, and the wolf-lean cut to his cheeks. His hands were calloused, not with work from a farm or a boat, but from handling weapons. A hard man, they murmured to themselves. A dangerous man.

(Perhaps, a few muttered, a man capable of taking on the sea. Those voices were quickly silenced, faster than any other.)

Jack tried not to let the whispering bother him. Objectively, he could understand it, coming from a tiny farming village himself. In small, tight-knit communities like these everyone knew everyone else. Strangers were curious oddities, and were choice subjects of gossip.

But even so, those watchful eyes prickled across his skin, and the low voices grated on his ears. He hated the attention. He gritted his teeth and swore to ignore them as he knocked on the door to a dingy building. The door opened a crack, a single eye staring out at him.

“I'm here for the lighthouse keys,” he grunted. The door opened a fraction wider, but revealed nothing more of the person on the other side.

“Spetsnaz Morrison, I presume?”

“Just Morrison,” he replied uncomfortably, not wanting to think about his time in the military right now.

“Of course,” the other replied in a quiet voice. They studied Jack for a moment, deathly silent. Jack stood still under their gaze, his back ramrod straight, his expression unconcerned. Finally, a set of keys were pushed through the cracked door.

“It's good that there will finally be someone who can care for the lighthouse properly,” the towns-person commented faux casually as Jack tucked the keys away, “Though I feel as if I should tell you that they say the lighthouse is haunted.”

“Who is they?” he asked.

“No one of importance,” the other replied, waving off his concerns, “Just an old ghost story.”

Jack snorted, just barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Ghost stories were just that—stories.

“There are fishing nets and a rowboat at the lighthouse. Everything there, you can use,” the person behind the door continued, “You look like you could use the supplies. I doubt you have a single copeck to your name. Lucky for you, there are quite a few people that will trade for fish.”

Subconsciously, Jack placed a hand against his sternum, pressing a coin hidden under his shirt into his skin.

“Lucky me.”

–

The lighthouse had seen better days. It was a sad looking gray structure made with cracked stone. Tiny windows dotted its side, and the light at the top was dark. Stretching in front of the lighthouse and into the sea was a skeletal dock, the wood aged and weathered. Most of the dock had rotted away, making it hazardous to walk on. A tiny rowboat was tied to the rickety wooden structure, the little vessel bobbing in the water.

Jack, having grown up in a landlocked farming community far away from the sea, had always had this grand vision of what a lighthouse should look like. In his head, a lighthouse was a tall gleaming beacon in the darkness. Seeing the shabby building in his care was a terrible disappointment.

Inside the lighthouse he found the promised nets, along with a simple harpoon. Jack hefted up the harpoon, testing its weight. It was well cared for, free of rust. The nets too were in good shape, woven with strong rope and free of tears. He set both the nets and the harpoon near the door, and went deeper into the lighthouse.

The lighthouse was smaller on the inside than he expected. There was a kitchen and a bedroom, along with the lantern room on the top. Jack evaluated the lantern room first to see what exactly he was dealing with. From up here, the view of the sea was amazing, but Jack paid it no mind. He was only interested in the task at hand, and went straight to inspecting the equipment without looking at the beautiful view. Like the fishing gear, the beacon appeared to be in working order. There was nothing he needed to do for it, other than the usual upkeep and cleaning.

Jack grimaced. It appeared that rather than some strange ghost, boredom would be the enemy. For a moment, the part of his heart that still longed for adventure wondered angrily why he was here living out this sort of life. There was nothing here for him, nothing but a slow decay in silence and solitude.

But then he pressed the token he wore around his neck and remembered the truth.

Jack wore a coin on a length of twine around his neck. The coin (a copeck) was an oddity. Or more accurately, it was a fake. It proudly displayed a 76 on its reverse side instead of a real denomination making it worse than useless. Despite that, it had been a gift from a long dead friend, and that made the coin the only thing Jack had left of value in his possession.

As he readied himself for bed, he slipped the copeck off his neck and rubbed it between his fingers, feeling the familiar bumps and grooves. Then he laid it reverently on bedside table, before climbing into bed. He closed his eyes and hoped for a dreamless sleep.

–

He's laying in the cold wet snow, staring down the scope of his gun. Everything is quiet. Even the beat of his heart is slow and steady, each pump of blood spaced out with a gap of silence. Thump...thump. He's alone. And the press of that loneliness is heavy, lying across his back, threatening to break his spine. The pressure is immense, as if it's forcing him to become part of the landscape. If he's not careful, he will merge with ice and rock and nothingness.

And then, just for a moment, there's something else in this empty place. Someone else. It's jarring, that bright burst of breath, life, and heat. It doesn't belong here. And so, he squeezes the trigger. The roar of the gun sounds for just a moment, and there is a dull thump of a heavy body hitting the snowy ground, before silence sweeps in again.

Woodenly, he stands up, his body disjointed from his mind. He should leave. He gave away his position. He needs to report in. There's protocol for this. He knows what to do. Instead, he walks over to his kill in a haze, leaving heavy footprints behind him.

He had created a splash of color in an empty canvas of snow and ice. Red spills across the snowy landscape like madly blooming flowers. Roses in winter. A corpse lies in the middle of the mess, sleeping with eyes wide open.

Jack knows that face. He _knows_ it, like he knows the taste of tobacco in his lungs and blood on his lips. A name is on the tip of his tongue, but his mind refuses. No no _no. Never!_

But he knows, he _knows—_ ash in his lungs and pain in his mouth. His heart (his greedy, selfish heart) constricts as his trembling hands reach out. His head is full of static, screeching white noise that barely covers up the accusations roaring through his brain.

You did this. You. It was you. Monster. Murderer. You did this. You did this. You you youyouyou— _did this!_

And then, from outside of the world, a dark purring voice pierced into his mind, like a cruel hook in a fish's gills.

“ _ **There you are...”**_

–

Jack woke with a gasp, sweat pouring from his brow and his heart thundering in his ribs. It was still dark outside, a pitch blackness that spoke of the lateness of the hour. Subconsciously, his hand groped at his bedside table, searching. He grabbed his copeck before his cigarettes, the metal cool against his skin. He rolled the coin between his fingers, the motions practiced and thoughtless.

The details of the dream were already starting the blur, but the feelings remained. The hollowness. The horror. The hated guilt.

 _This_ was familiar, unlike the lighthouse, unlike the sea, unlike the townspeople. That black mood was the millstone around his neck that threatened to drag him down to the depths into damnation. The self-hatred and shame haunted him far more thoroughly than any made up ghost.

He had no idea how long he sat in bed, flipping the copeck over and over into the air. Eventually the edge of the coin began to give off a bright glint as light began streaming through the tiny window. Jack blinked down at it, almost surprised at the shine. Dawn again. He let the coin rest in the palm of his hand, its unusual seventy-six marking staring up at him. Mocking him.

“What am I doing?” he asked himself, as he pressed his hand (coin and all) against his forehead.

None of his ghosts answered.

–

( _In the dark corners of the lighthouse bedroom, curls of dark water twisted and churned like living things. They had no eyes, but they stared at the old soldier nevertheless, shaking and quivering as they drank in dark dreams and false memories._

_There, **there**! Deep and sweet, bitter and so full of pain. Aaaah so close, so close...but patience. Patience. _

_The brackish water coiled up on itself, then collapsed, seeping into the cracks and disappearing._

_Jack never noticed._ )


	2. Eyes

This is a dream, this is a memory, this is a truth, and this is a lie.

Jack is making camp in some misbegotten forest, dozens of other soldiers around him. It's freezing cold. Creeping tendrils of frost are everywhere, and his breath comes out in great billowing plumes. He's crouched in front of a pile of twigs, trying to spark a fire to ward off the chill.

There's a lump under a dingy sheet next to him. He doesn't look at it, or at the crimson flowers growing all over it, but every once in awhile, one of the others pauses in front of it, and bows their head in respectful silence. Sometimes ( _every_ time) they would glance in his direction, their eyes hard.

What a failure, they seem to say without speaking. What a disgrace.

Jack isn't really paying attention to the others. His attention heavily focused on his task. He needs to start the fire. Nothing else matters. Everyone else around him could be empty husks for all he cares.

When he glances up briefly, the others are all faceless forms with gray voids for heads. He doesn't even remember what they're _supposed_ to look like. Their faces, their history, their _names_ were all gone.

Gone, gone, _gone_.

His fault. Always.

For a second, the world tilts, and it begins to snow. Then, he feels the razor sharp wind bite against his ear before a deep voice whispers to him:

“ _ **That's enough. Stop.”**_

In an instant, Jack woke up in the lighthouse, gasping. Beads of sweat rolled down his brow as he gulped down deep lungfuls of air. Shakily, he tried to gather his bearings. That camp was long behind him. That _day_ was long behind him. But, he could still feel the bite of frost on his skin, smell the smoke in the air, and see that perfect rosy shade on that cloth. It had been blood red. All of that was clear in his memory, perfect as if they were stamped on his very bones. And yet...and yet....

He shivered with horror when he realized he really _didn't_ remember the names and faces of the men he served with.

Shaking, he slid out of bed, and grabbed his copeck and a pack of cigarettes from the bedside table. He stumbled towards a window, and stared out into the horizon. He stood there, smoking cigarette after cigarette as if the tobacco could burn the ice out of his memories. Jack glanced at the calendar tacked to the wall. Nearly a full month passed since his arrival at the lighthouse. And so far, nothing had really changed.

Everyday he took the boat out into the water and cast out his nets. It was quiet out in the sea, with only the cries of the gulls to keep him company as the boat bobbed in the sleepy waves. He liked them, the birds, though they only really cared about him if he tossed them scraps. His nets were never bursting full (a testimony for his rather amateurish skill) but at least he caught enough to keep himself fed. Sometimes, when he caught extra, he forced himself to trek back to the town to barter for cigarettes and food.

Honestly, if it weren't for the lure of tobacco, he would steer clear of the town and its people. No one spoke to him when he was there. If they had simply ignored him, he wouldn't have minded. But the people stared, their eyes following him as he made his rounds.

Eyes, eyes, _eyes—_ there were dozens of them pinning him down like a bug under glass, cutting into him with their judgments. They whispered among each other, their voices pitched low to hide their words. But it wasn't difficult to determine the subject of their gossip, not when their eyes unerringly followed Jack.

It had been bad the first day he had arrived in town, but it seemed that the longer he stayed the more the townspeople focused on him. At first he would glare back, hoping to make them advert their gaze, but instead they continued to stare, their eyes bulging like those of the fish he caught. Snarling in anger did not dissuade them, and he would be damned if he hunched in on himself to avoid their sight. So instead he marched into town, his back ramrod straight and his face set in stone.

If his days were boring and uncomfortable, then his nights were chaos and misery. The memories of war dogged his heels, refusing him proper sleep. He dreamed of snow and ice and blood, then found himself awake at midnight either chain smoking or flipping his copeck between his hands, praying for peace, for rest.

At times, Jack wondered why he even bothered to leave the military. Nightmarish dreams there would be the same as if he had them here. But then he remembered the whispers and stares that had followed him there—dark glares and even darker curses muttered under their breath. Morrison the Failure, they had grumbled. Morrison the Disgraced. Here in this tiny fishing town the stares and murmurs that followed him were born from simple curiosity, nothing more and nothing less. And while his days blurred together to make a bland (if slightly awkward) existence, it was better than...before.

Jack looked back out the window. The sun was beginning to rise over the ocean, painting the grayish waves a soft gold. He stubbed out his cigarette, lazily flicking the butt out the window. He had to get down to his boat. It was a new day, and there was work to be done.

–

Jack dragged his net into the boat. Empty. Again.

“What the fuck am I doing?” he groaned. He rubbed his forehead, trying to stave off a headache. His stomach cramped, reminding him that his last meal had been hours ago, and that if he didn't catch something soon he would be skipping dinner. He had been at this for hours. He accepted the fact that he wasn't the greatest fisherman. He had grown up on a farm, not by the sea. Catching fish was a relatively new skill, and one he hadn't mastered. But still surely by now he should have caught...something?

“Please,” he whispered to the sea, as he closed his eyes in exhaustion.

A sudden splash had his eyes snapping open. There was a ripple of movement, and Jack spotted a sleek sinuous form under the water. He flung out his nets.

“Hah!” Jack crowed, feeling the net tangle up with something. He hauled it up eagerly, excitement bubbling within him.

Then his face fell.

The net was horridly snarled, the rope twisted up against itself. There was a small dark shape in the heart of the mess, but it was horridly still. It looked like debris, not anything edible. For a moment, Jack stared at the knotted disaster, hopelessness seizing him. Then the despair burned into anger.

“Is this your way of helping?!” Jack screamed at the water, “Damn you! Damn you!”

The sea did not reply. It was silent except for the gulls, their cries like disdainful laughter to his ears. Jack swore again, and grit his teeth. He didn't bother trying to calm down. He would rather the rage burn hot in him than the dreary drag of helplessness.

There was nothing more he could do. He couldn't continue fishing, not with his net in such a state. Snarling in frustration he grabbed the boats oars and headed back to shore.

After tying up his boat, he stomped back to the lighthouse, and tossed the net on the floor as soon as he was inside. At first he was tempted to leave it there, but eventually common sense cut through his irritation. He would have to unsnarl the net sooner or later. He had to go back out tomorrow, so it was either taking care of the net now, or in the morning and loosing precious fishing time. Sighing in defeat, he sat down on the floor and pulled the tangled net into his lap.

With deft fingers, he began picking at the knots. Eventually, he fell into a rhythm, the rope unwinding in his hands. As he went, the lump in the center of the tangled mass was slowly revealed. He squinted at it, puzzled. He originally thought it was a piece of driftwood, but now that he looked closer...

Jack yelped, startled when the object suddenly flopped around. Scrambling to his feet, Jack reached for his harpoon. He jabbed at the wriggling thing, spearing it neatly through the gills. It writhed on the tip of the harpoon for a moment longer, before hanging limp.

Feeling a touch hopeful (perhaps he would finally have dinner after all!) he brought his catch into the kitchen. When he laid it down, though, he started to feel uneasy.

It was a fish about the length of his forearm. Its scales were a complete jet black, and its eyes were perfectly round pearls sunk into an elongated head. It had sharp spines running down the length of its back, and angular fins. The fish's belly bulged grotesquely outwards, the skin unnaturally bloated. Most disturbingly, its mouth was not filled with teeth, but with pale fleshy tentacles that hung out like limp seaweed.

“What the hell?” Jack muttered to himself. He had never heard of an animal like this, and just looking at it caused the hairs on his arms to stand up, prickling with wariness.

He bit his lip, debating with himself. His old friend from the military (who had _actually_ grown up by the sea as opposed to Jack himself) had often swore that the sea held many secrets. Fish that glowed with light in the dark, eels cloaked in lightning, and squid the length of ships...all those and more his friend had sworn were true. A pitch black fish with tentacles in its mouth was rather tame in comparison to those stories, Jack thought.

His stomach growled in agreement. Food was food, and with how horrible his luck with his net had been, he should be grateful, not hesitant. Still the sense of unease lingered the longer he looked at the strange creature.

Finally, he grabbed his coin off his neck and flipped it. Heads, toss it back to the sea, tails, eat the damned thing.

It spun in the air (once, twice, three times) and landed on the table with a soft _clink_. The seventy-six stared back up at Jack.

Tails.

Decision made, Jack grabbed a knife and cut open the fish. And there came the final surprise. The creature had no entrails. Instead, a gleaming silver orb rolled out of its belly and onto the table, shining as if it held a light of its own.


	3. Orb

Jack stared at the silvery orb in his hand. It was beautiful, in direct contrast to the grotesque creature it had been birthed from. The orb was a little bigger than his fist, and while there was some weight to it, it was oddly light for its size. There was an almost ethereal quality to it; the orb was distinctly unworldly. The sphere was perfectly smooth, and seemed to be lit from within. Jack wondered what it was made of. It wasn't glass, rock, or any metal Jack recognized.

Considering it came from the sea, maybe it was a pearl, though Jack quickly laughed that idea off. Pearls came from oysters, not fish. It was too impossible, too strange, though strange things did come from the sea.

Speaking of strange things, Jack turned his attention back to the “fish” he had caught, placing the orb to one side. With the orb removed from its stomach, the creature looked sad and deflated. Even the tentacles that hung from its mouth seemed more lifeless. Jack prodded the limp creature, debating on eating it. While he knew very little about the creatures of the sea, he was very certain that this odd monstrosity was not something natural.

From the tentacles in its mouth to its deflated stomach, this _thing_ wasn't normal. Still, Jack found himself preparing his catch for dinner. Part of him balked at the stupid idea. But on the other hand...

He hadn't caught anything else. His pantry was rather sparse, and his stomach was growling. His body moved thoughtlessly, muscle memory taking over. He placed a pan over his tiny stove top and lit the burner. He rubbed salt over the fish's slimy skin, trying to ignore how the texture of it caused the hairs on his arms to stand up in disgust. Finally he set his catch into the warm pan.

And that's when the shrieking began.

The horrid sound filled the lighthouse. It was like a chorus of boiling kettles going off underscored with the screech of nails on a chalkboard. High pitched whistles and cries screamed, layering on top of each other to make an unholy din. In the pan, the fish steamed and smoked, its skin blistering in an instant. The tentacles in its mouth writhed as if they were still alive before curling up tight and blackening with the heat.

Crying out in surprise, Jack grabbed the pan off the stove top, and dumped its contents onto the counter, uncaring of the heat. Quickly he smashed the pan into the fish. Then again. Again. _Again._ Only when his arm began to tire did he stop. The lighthouse was silent again, save for his heaving breaths. Shakily, he put the pan to one side. It looked like he was going without dinner tonight.

–

That night, Jack tossed and turned in bed, his empty stomach grumbling in displeasure while his mind churned with with questions. He stared at the ceiling for a few minutes before grabbing a pack of cigarettes and his copeck. Feeling adventurous, he shoved on a pair of boots and wandered outside. He sat on the sandy seashore and lit a cigarette, inhaling as much of the bitter smoke as possible. Idly, he rolled his coin back and forth between his knuckles, and stared out into the sea.

He was hungry and tired. No, not tired, exhausted. Dark circles lined his eyes, and he was feeling more and more sluggish everyday. He wanted to sleep but every time he tried, his mind plagued him with—

_Snow and ice. The crack of a gunshot. Red spilling across white._

—things he didn't want to remember. Was this going to be his fate? Was he doomed to spend the rest of his life waking up from nightmares, and then going out to smoke and play with a coin? He had come out here to start a new life. He didn't want to always be haunted by his past. He flipped the copeck into the air, catching it neatly in his palm. The odd 76 marking on it stared back at him. Jack remembered when he first received the coin. He had been given the copeck—

_Jack tears open another soldier's shirt, exposing a set of dog tags and a bloody hole. There's a coin strung up next to the tags. Jack presses shaking hands over the wound, and feels life dribble out between his fingers._

—by an old friend, who had grown up by the sea. When he left the military he wanted to get away from anything familiar. He didn't want to go back to the farm. He didn't want to make a new life in the city. Instead, he came here to the sea, wanting to see the waves and sand his friend had spoken so fondly of. And yet, this life was nothing like what this friend had described. Was coming here a mistake?

Sighing with frustration, he stubbed out his cigarette against the sole of his boot, and flicked the butt away. Then he laid back onto the ground. Sand wormed its way into his hair and clothes, but he paid it no mind. Laying out on the sandy shore was more comfortable than tossing and turning in his bed.

“What the hell am I doing?” he muttered to himself, pressing his hands to his face. He closed his eyes, fighting with his emotions.

Somehow, while full of frustration and under the stars, Jack fell asleep.

–

( _Unknown to Jack, as he slept, a shadow from the roiling waves of the sea crept out from the water and dragged itself, bloated and waterlogged, onto the sand. It slithered its way towards the sleeping soldier, shedding water and darkness in equal measure and leaving a slick trail behind it._

_Curious, it crept closer to Jack. Closer. Closer..._

_It stopped, a mere hands-breath away._

_Jack continued to sleep on the sand, his exhausted body oblivious._ )

–

This time, Jack does not dream of ice and snow, of his breath coming out in great vaporous plumes. He does not dream in stark white and brilliant red. Instead he dreams of a fire and an old friend.

Jack was young again, naive and full of hope, his hair a bright sunny blond and his face unlined. He was sitting in front of a camp fire, and another man sat to his right. Something bright and shiny was weaving it's way around the other man's gloved fingers.

Jack knew this memory. He knew that the shining bit of metal his friend was playing with was the odd 76 copeck he now wore around his neck. He remembered being curious about the coin, and being amazed with the tricks the other man could do with it. He remembered...

He's had this dream before. He's had this dream more times than he can count. It's one of his more frequent nightmares. Still, despite knowing the pain at the end, he follows the same script as always.

“What is that?” he asked, pointing to the shining object between the other's fingers, just as he had all those years ago.

There was a chuckle from his old friend, as the round item was tossed carelessly into Jack's hands. Jack fumbled with it, just as he had in the past. He stared at it, dumbfounded, just as before.

But unlike before, a silvery orb sat in his hand, not a coin.

“What?”

Jack snapped his head up, confusion written all over his face. This was not how the dream went. His friend was gone, and the man in front of him was a stranger dressed in a black hooded robe. The stranger appeared to be staring at him. Jack tried to stare back, but underneath that hood was a dizzying mess of abstract shapes and writhing lines. It made his head ache and his eyes burn, so he shut his eyes to stave off the sudden nausea creeping up his throat.

“ _ **There you are.”**_

Jack gasped and flinched back, the sound of the other's voice ringing painfully in his ears. He touched one ear, and felt blood leak out. There was a moment of silence, and then...

“ _ **...Try again.”**_

The sound was not quite so harsh. The stranger still spoke with a sepulchral voice, causing a tremor of fear to race down Jack's spine. Yet it was not as bad as before. Jack cracked one eye open and tried to look at the stranger again.

Instead of the incomprehensible chaos of before, under the hood was a bone white mask, carved in the shape of a stylized skull, with thick pale tentacles streaming from the bottom. The tentacles twisted and curled by their own volition as if they were alive. The dark empty sockets of the mask seemed to stare straight into Jack, cleaving into his soul and leaving him with a sense of dread.

“Who are you?” Jack demanded. The stranger didn't stand up so much as he _unfolded_ himself, allowing more of his presence to fill the space around him. He loomed over Jack, even as the blond scrambled to his feet and stood his full height.

“ _ **I am the Reaper.”**_

Jack opened his mouth to say something else, but the words died in his throat, strangled by the unsettling aura the other oozed out. Jack tried to fight against it, but the words refused to leave his lips. That pale mask tilted to one side as if the wearer was curious.

“ _ **Are you afraid?”**_

Jack bared his teeth in a snarl, defiant, even as his instincts screamed at him. Before him was a predator, a monster that had simply pulled on a human form like a coat for convenience sake. Jack refused to be prey. He threw caution to the wind, and lunged at the cloaked figure. Reality seemed to bend for a moment, time slowing down into a thick quagmire. Jack found himself immobilized midair, his limbs bound with something wet and slimy. Tentacles. There were tentacles reaching from nowhere keeping him trapped. He was caught, like a fly on a spider web. As he struggled against his restraints, the cloaked figure laughed, a throaty horrid sound.

“ _ **Mmm. Oh yes. I was right about you.”**_

–

Jack woke up violently, his limbs flailing against the blankets tucked around him. He sucked in a handful of desperate breaths, trying to calm the fading panic singing in his veins.

What...what was that? Nightmares were nothing new to him, but this one had been different. It had been unusual in its fantastical nature since normally his dreams were more rooted in old memories. Strange beings in masks were _not_ the norm. Jack scrubbed his hand over his face and then through his hair.

Jack paused, confused to feel something grainy in his hair. Sand. That's right. He had fallen asleep outside. And yet...there were blankets tucked around him. Sunlight was streaming through a tiny open window. He glanced to the side, and saw his bedside table. His copeck and an empty carton of cigarettes were lined up neatly on top. The odd orb was resting on his pillow.

He was in his bed in the lighthouse. But...he had fallen asleep outside. How did...how did he get back here?


	4. Loop

While nightmares were nothing new to Jack, sleepwalking was a new development. At least he assumed he had been sleepwalking. It was the only logical explanation to how he had ended up back in his bed after falling asleep on the sand. And while he had a surefire logical answer, and he was sure he was right, something in his heart made him think otherwise.

Jack felt strange...off-kilter, as if he had made a misstep on a rickety old bridge and he was moments away from falling. He couldn't identify it, couldn't accurately describe it, but something inside of him was insisting that something was going to happen. He kept looking over his shoulder, paranoia gripping him.

“Stop,” he murmured to himself, “There's nothing there. It's all in your head. Stop.”

It didn't stop. He tried smoking to relieve the anxiety. His nerves refused to settle. He tried playing with his coin. That didn't work. If anything, the sense of unease grew. White static began to hum in his ears and his vision began to gray at the edges.

Jack snarled, angry at himself. No. _No!_ He refused. He was stronger than this!

He forced himself to head back to his boat, nets and harpoon in hand. He rowed the boat out onto the open waters, his heart pounding too fast. His hands shook as he tossed out his nets, and his breath came out a little too quick.

“Calm down,” he muttered to himself, “Calm down, calm down, _calm down!_ ”

He didn't understand. There was nothing fucking wrong! He was fine, he was fine! The sun was out, glinting off the sea waves. He was far away from the cold and the battles of his previous life. He was fine.

There was sea foam on the water. It was a thick frothy white, like snow.

_(Ice and snow, the cold biting into his cheeks. The roar of a gun. Roses in winter. Red on white. Red red red redredred **red!**_

“ _Idiot, what are you doing?!”)_

Something in Jack broke. He rowed back to shore, hastily tying the boat to the broken dock. He had barely remembered to reel in the nets. Then he rushed back into the lighthouse, tearing through the kitchen pantry. He found a small stash of alcohol that he had hidden there days ago. It was just some old rot-gut, nothing good, or really anything he personally liked. Still, he eagerly gulped down the drink, almost dropping it twice in his haste.

Calm down. Calm down, calm down, _calm down_!

He didn't want to think about ( _snow snow blood-on-snow_ ) anything anymore.

Jack lost track of time. He might have passed out on the kitchen floor, his head thumping painfully on the ground.

–

That night, Jack's dreams placed him back in front of _that_ campfire. He can't see far past the fire's ring of light. The space outside of the light is murky, but he can see a ring of trees in the darkness. Despite the chaos that had filled him in his waking moments, Jack felt oddly calm here. For a moment, Jack thought he was alone, but then a patch of darkness stepped into the light, reforming itself into the Reaper.

This time, the hooded figure did not seem so large. He did not loom over Jack, especially once he sat down, and the unsettling aura that had cloaked him before was muted. The hairs on the back of Jack's arms still stood on end, but this time Jack could pretend that it was due to the cold.

“ _ **I've upset you.”**_

The corner of Jack's mouth curled into an expression that only an overly generous person would call a smile.

“I upset me.”

“ _ **How foolish of you, Jack.”**_

Jack nodded in rueful agreement. He didn't bother to ask how the Reaper knew his name. It didn't matter. Besides this was a dream, and rules worked differently in dreams than in reality. Though Jack had to admit, this was the first time in a long time that he had felt so lucid in a dream.

“ _ **What are you doing here?”**_ the Reaper asked, curious.

“I think I'm waiting,” Jack replied, that strange calmness settling over him, “This is the start of a nightmare, you know.”

“ _ **Oh?”**_

Jack looked up at the Reaper, that same wry not-smile on his face.

“It has nothing to do with you. I've had this dream many times. It's based off a memory. In the real world, I met my best friend here a...a lifetime ago.”

“ _ **That doesn't sound like a nightmare.”**_

“I killed him a year ago.”

The words hung in the air, as if they had real weight. It was the first time Jack had admitted it out loud. Like pus from an infected wound, the words spilled out of him.

“I was...I was ordered to hold a point. They train you. The military. They train you. You lie in wait for...hours. Days. It doesn't matter. You have your orders. You lie in the cold and wait. Anything, anyone that crosses your kill zone, you shoot. Until the all clear is given, you shoot. No exceptions. None. Anything could be a danger. You must shoot it. You _will_ shoot it. It is the enemy.”

“ _ **But it wasn't, isn't that right, Jack?”**_

Jack bowed his head, his hands clenched tight. “It was a mistake. I didn't hear the all clear. Maybe the weather got in the way. It was snowing badly. I couldn't see well, but I could make out the movement. It was in my kill zone.”

There was a beat of silence.

“It was a bad shot. Hit the torso, but not the heart. My friend died slowly, because of my mistake.”

Jack rubbed his hands over his face, feeling hollow.

“I couldn't...I couldn't continue after that. Not really. The next mission they put me on...I froze up. I couldn't shoot. I survived, but the mission...Ha. A disaster would be putting it mildly. And every mission after that was the same.”

Morrison the Failure, they had called him. Morrison the Disgraced. He suspected the military was glad to see him go.

“You asked me before if I was afraid of you,” Jack said to the Reaper, “I'm not. I have worse demons than you.”

“ _ **Is that so?”**_

The Reaper stood up, his form expanding. He became incomprehensibly large, filling the space with dread. He seemed to stand even taller than Jack's lighthouse. Every scrap of animal instinct that Jack possessed screamed in protest. Nausea rolled in his gut, and his ears began to ring and bleed. The Reaper was truly monstrous.

Jack looked up in the face of a god and bared all his teeth.

It amused the Reaper to no end.

“ _ **Good, good,”**_ the Reaper said, his voice booming like thunder, **_“I have no need of mindless worshipers full of fear. A fighter is better.”_**

“What do you want from me?” Jack demanded as the Reaper shrunk himself down, folding back up into an almost human shape.

“ _ **For now? I am simply curious.”**_

“About what?”

The Reaper paused, as if startled by Jack's audacity to ask a question.

“ _ **If you had the chance,”**_ the Reaper began, **_“is there anything you would ask your friend?”_**

Jack blinked, thrown back by the Reaper's response. He paused for a moment, thinking. Then he laughed, shaking his head. There was only one question he wanted to know the answer to. But he couldn't say it. Not out loud. Not even in his dreams. But the Reaper was still waiting for an answer, so Jack gave him one, flimsy as it was.

“What did you find so special about the sea, Gabriel?”


	5. Bubbles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally starting to earn that E rating.

Jack awoke slowly, sleep still clinging to him. For the first time in months, Jack woke up feeling well rested. Sunlight streamed lazily from the windows, making the whole room seem dreamy and comfortable. A great weight seemed to have been lifted off Jack's shoulders, or an infected wound had been drained and cleaned. He groaned, stretching out luxuriously on his bed. He shook his head ruefully. He must have been sleepwalking again. He hadn't fallen asleep here. He knew that. He had been in the kitchen last night. He should have been unsettled, but for some reason he felt too relaxed to be concerned.

The dream from last night was getting fuzzy in his memories. It wasn't quite gone, per say, but it was just dim, his mind deeming it unimportant. How odd, he thought lazily. It had seemed significant while he dreaming, but now, he rather couldn't be bothered, not during the comforting warmth of the day.

The sunlight streamed through the open window, bouncing off something shiny on his pillow. He looked over, surprised to see the orb he had cut out of that fish two days ago.

“And how did you get here?” Jack wondered, picking up the silvery orb.

It was cool to the touch. Even as he rolled it back and forth between his palms, and tossed it gently from hand to hand, the sphere kept its chilly temperature. It felt soothing fidgeting with it. While he originally though it to be a silvery color, staring at the surface of the orb made Jack realize that it had all the swirled colors of the rainbow, like mother of pearl. He peered deeper into its depths. It _was_ rather beautiful. There was something about this thing...

He shook his head, clearing it. Look at him, standing idly about when there was work to be done. He tucked the orb into his coat pocket and headed outside. Instead of venturing back onto the water with his nets, Jack headed over to the broken dock in front of the lighthouse with a hammer, some nails, and a few pieces of salvaged wood. While he was technically only responsible for the lighthouse and its interior, Jack wanted to fix the dock. Perhaps he was distracting himself. He didn't feel like fishing again so soon after the last disastrous results.

Unlike fishing, Jack had some experience in carpentry. He had more confidence in his ability to actually accomplish the task of repairing a dock. He walked down the length of the dock, grimacing when he noticed how many of the graying planks were soft and rotting. More than half of the planks were already splintering, and at the furthest end of the dock only a few stubborn pilings rose from the water. The weathered posts stood up like silent sentinels leading out to sea.

Jack started prying up the old planks, the rotting wood practically crumbling in his fingers. He got a steady rhythm going, prying up a section at a time, then replacing the wood before moving to the next section. By midday, he was exhausted, but his mood was still oddly buoyant.

Jack sat down on the partially repaired dock, wincing as he curled and uncurled his hands. He should have worn gloves. He had more than a few splinters dig themselves under his skin, and his hands were blistered and scraped. His stomach growled with hunger and his hands were a big mess of pain, but over all he felt...good. He felt accomplished in a way that he hadn't in years. He relaxed a little, bathing in the gentle satisfaction of a job well done. After a few moments, a gray-feathered seagull fluttered down to sit on the repaired section of the dock. Jack, in his contentment, smiled lazily at the bird. The impish grin shaved years off his face, and gave a hint to how, once upon a time, he had been considered a brilliant and charismatic leader.

“Well, what do you think?” Jack asked the bird wryly, gesturing with a bloody hand at his work, “It's not bad. I'll probably have to go into town for some more wood tomorrow, but I think I can get it done by the end of the week.”

The bird stared at him with black beady eyes. It flew off. Jack laughed and shook his head. Truly he had been away from people for too long. Sometimes he missed having some real human companionship. But then ( _blood on snow. Ice in his veins. Scornful sneers. Morrison the Failure. Morrison the Disgraced.)_ he would remember.

Companionship. Ha! He was avoiding people for a reason. He didn't need companionship. He didn't want it. Even going into the tiny town nearby suffocated him with the press of people and there were barely any crowds there. He was content to be alone by himself.

Scoffing again at himself, Jack stood up and headed back towards the lighthouse. He would finish fixing up the dock later.

–

Jack yanked the last splinter of wood from his skin before plunging his throbbing hands into a basin of water. He really should have been more careful. He didn't think he had caused permanent damage to his hands, but they were pulsing with dull pain.

He dried off his hands, then looked down at the rest of himself. His whole body was slightly sore and aching. However, the pain was not too terrible. He mostly felt hot and sticky. Dust and debris clung to him. With that in mind, he drew himself a bath. It was a bit frustrating to fill the tub enough with his hands in the state they were in, but he was able to complete the task in a timely enough manner. He stripped out of his dirty clothes, and right before he stepped into the tub, he fished out the orb from his pockets. He settled into the water, the orb in his hands. Feeling curious, he let it go, surprised when it floated in the water like a pumice stone.

“What the hell are you?” Jack grumbled as he prodded the orb. If he was smart, he would chuck the thing back into the ocean. He would forget about it and go about his day. He didn't need a mystery in his life, he had enough on his plate.

He rolled the orb between his palms, admiring how it remained cool against his damaged skin. He _was_ curious, despite himself. And it seemed harmless enough to keep it. He released it back into the water, watching it float and bob on the surface like a little boat.

Jack slid his aching hands back under the water, taking care to clean the abrasions. He flexed his hands carefully, making sure they wouldn't stiffen up. He would have to bandage them when he got out of the tub. Jack sighed, half in relief, half in frustration. He wished he had someone else around to bandage his hands. It would be simpler that way.

Slowly exhaustion started to creep up on him as he sat in the tub. He leaned back, trying to relax into the bath. Really, the tub was a bit cramped for a man his size to lounge about in, and his knees were bent almost to his chest. Still he managed to rest his check against the edge of the bath, his eyes slipping shut. He wanted a few minutes to just...close his eyes.

The shining orb bobbed merrily in the water as Jack drifted off to sleep.

–

Jack found his dream-self in the ocean, floating in the waves. He was adrift, and he couldn't see the slightest scrap of land. The sky was slate-gray, and he could see the tiniest streaks of blue-white lightning in the distance. He was completely at the mercy of the elements, and yet he didn't feel afraid. Instead, he felt wonderfully peaceful. He was floating in the sea. It didn't feel safe (the sea was never safe) but it was more freeing than anything he had ever experienced.

He sighed and laid back, floating with his arms stretched out and staring at the overcast sky. The first pattering of gentle rain fell on his face, sliding down his cheeks to join the salt water below. The sea caressed his skin, licking at his naked body gently. Logically, he knew the water should have been freezing cold, but it felt as comfortable as a bath. He felt something warm brush against his ankle, curling around it gently. It gave a little tug, questioning.

“It's alright,” Jack murmured, going with the flow of his strangely nice dream, “Go ahead.”

A pale tentacle rose from the sea, hovering uncertainly over his prone body, before coiling around him securely and pulling him down under the waves. Jack went willingly, not struggling. He was unsurprising to find the Reaper under the water. When the tentacle let him go, he did not immediately start swimming to the surface, instead content to stay in place.

“ _ **Still unafraid, I see,”**_ the Reaper observed, the deep hum of whale-song echoing in his voice. He seemed to belong there under the ocean waves, his form blurring with the sea's darkness as if he were a part of it.

Jack tipped his head in acknowledgment, unable to speak. While he couldn't say anything, Jack wasn't struggling for breath. It seemed that in this dream, he didn't need to. He laughed, marveling at the little bubbles escaping from his mouth.

Then the tentacle (the Reaper's tentacle, Jack supposed, though he couldn't see how it was attached to the cloaked figure) began to move. The touch was innocent and curious, prodding his wrist before moving up his arm and shoulder. It was so soft and warm. Kind.

Jack sighed, another stream of bubbles floating up. It had been a long time since he had been touched in such a gentle manner without a hint of violence. When was the last time? Perhaps his mother's hug before he marched off to war? No, not that long ago. The last had been his best friend's hand on his back, congratulating Jack on a job well done.

A tentacle ran a gentle sweep down Jack's spine causing him to sigh again and close his eyes. Yes, just like that. That little bit of warmth and companionship. Jack forgot how much he missed this. He forgot how much he craved it. He had been alone for so long and now...

A second tentacle slid against his abused hands, licking and petting at the cuts that covered them. The dull pain in his hands faded to nothing as the rings of suckers on the tentacles latched on and seemingly drank the hurt away. Jack wanted to murmur his thanks, but he couldn't speak under the water. So instead, he brought the tentacles in his hands up to his mouth and kissed along the smooth appendages with a wet open mouth.

Suddenly there were more touches down his back, more tentacles sliding down his skin like rainwater. The tentacles licked and teased, the soft touches contrasting with the rough edges of the suckers. The touches were like small bites and kisses. They trailed lower and lower, circling over scars and tracing patterns over his skin. Caressing and stroking.

Jack never wanted it to end.

The warm gentle touches continued down lower. They became firmer, more daring. Jack felt a few strong tentacles wrap around his legs, curling around the muscle and squeezing in a rippling massage. A few others gripped his ass firmly, pressing the cheeks together then gently spreading them apart. The tapered tip of one tentacle began to circle his puckered hole.

Jack couldn't help it. He threw back his head and moaned soundlessly, bubbles escaping from his mouth. Oh, he had forgotten this feeling, this warmth. His skin tingled and flushed with arousal. He was suddenly eager for more.

Jack felt a delicate touch of a tentacle against his face, brushing across the corner of his mouth. On instinct, Jack opened his mouth letting in the questing appendage petting at his lips. The tentacle squirmed against his tongue and soft palette. He licked it, memorizing the texture against his tongue. Another tentacle boldly pushed its way inside his mouth, running along his teeth as if counting each one. He suckled on them sweetly, then tried to whine when they withdrew.

“ _ **Look at you,”**_ the Reaper crooned, “Opening up for a little bit of love.”

That had been the wrong voice. Jack's eyes snapped open. Instead of his eyes meeting the Reaper's bone white mask and tentacles, a familiar face smiled back him under the dark hood.

“Gabriel,” Jack breathed. And then he woke up.


	6. Hole

Jack blinked sleep out of his eyes, still trembling from the confusing sensations from his dream. First, he took stock of his surroundings. He was still in the tub. Shakily, his stood up, his hands reaching for a towel. As soon as his fingers closed around the cloth, he noticed that they were fine. His hands were completely healed, the skin smooth and unbroken.

Disturbed, he looked back at the tub. The silvery orb still floated on the surface of the water, shining all the more brightly amid dark water that looked oddly brackish. Jack knew he had been filthy, but not that much. Against his better judgment, he scoped up a handful of the bathwater and brought it to his lips.

Salt met his tongue. Sea water. There was sea water in his tub.

“I'm loosing my mind,” Jack whispered to himself as he dropped the water back into the tub and quickly dressed.

Jack felt unsettled, but more than that, he was furious. No, he wasn't angry at the Reaper, the strange creature that he was certain his mind had conjured up. He was angry at himself.

Gabriel had been his dearest friend. Someone he respected and admired. Someone he mourned daily. Gabriel changed Jack's life when they met. When Gabriel died (when Jack killed Gabriel) Jack's life changed again. So much of Jack's life traced back to Gabriel and Jack felt like he was tainting Gabriel's memory with his disrespectful thoughts.

And to mix up the Reaper with Gabriel? That was just another insult to add to the pile.

“Fuck,” Jack groaned, rubbing his hair, “The Reaper isn't even real!”

His hands itched to play with his coin, but Jack felt too guilty. The copeck had once been Gabriel's. It felt wrong to touch it now, not with guilt and shame twisting up his insides.

Instead he plucked the orb out of the tub, tossing the sphere back and forth between his hands. Just as before, the orb was cool to the touch, and no matter how much he played with it, it remained the same temperature. He couldn't do many tricks with it, not like he could with his coin, but the motion was soothing, nonetheless. Slowly, his heart began to settle, and before he knew it, the sun had already set and the stars were beginning to shine.

Jack didn't want to fall a sleep again, though. The dream from earlier still sang in his veins, temptation and discomfort echoing within him. He rolled the ball between his hands again before sighing.

“I hope you would forgive me,” Jack whispered to Gabriel's ghost, “It's selfish of me to ask, but please...don't hate me.”

Jack didn't go to bed that night, instead waiting for the sun to rise and stewing in his own thoughts.

–

Once dawn came, Jack toyed around with the idea of heading back to his boat, and trying again to catch something worthwhile. But, considering Jack's terrible time fishing the past few days, his pantry was bare, and he was desperate for both nicotine and food. He scraped together the last of the little money he had, and went to town again, looking for some cigarettes and maybe a bit of breakfast. He had gotten the cigarettes, and was currently busy trying to get the local baker to lower the price of some bread.

“No catch today?” the baker asked, knowing that Jack often bartered with the fish he caught. Jack shrugged helplessly.

“The sea has been odd lately,” he replied, thinking back to the mutant fish that had been tangled up in his nets.

“The sea is always odd,” came the reply, as the baker stared at Jack with eyes like bottomless pits filled with a dark finality, “It is cruel and capricious. I think you'll die to it.”

For a moment, Jack stared, completely caught off guard as the baker handed over Jack's purchase. Then he mumbled out some sort of farewell, took the bread, and hurried off, suddenly eager to get away. He wasn't exactly cozy with any of the townspeople, but that exchange had been unusually harsh. He pushed his way through the thin crowds his head buzzing with white noise.

Every single person stared at him as he left.

–

Jack wanted to stay awake through the night again, but his exhausted body demanded rest. He had been sitting on his bed, and had just laid his head down for a moment when his eyes drifted shut and he felt asleep.

He dreamed of familiar snow and ice. He dreamed of his gun in his hands, his only companion in the empty desolate wastes. He existed in nothingness. He himself was nothing.

A gunshot breaks the silence, roaring loud in his ears. Within one blink and the next, Jack is sitting in a pool of blood, staring at his hands. They're covered in red.

“I...I didn't...It should have been me,” Jack choked out, tears blurring his vision. He can't see Gabriel's body, but he knows its there.

Jack is sick of this, of his reoccurring nightmare. He's sick of being here. He's sick of being stuck. Nothing will ever change. But this was his punishment, this continuous nightmare. It was a lenient one in comparison to Gabriel's fate. Jack still got to see the sun, feel the wind on his cheeks. His heart still beat in his chest. Gabriel however...Gabriel with his wicked smile and clever mind, he was dead and gone, and Jack (a far more unworthy soul) was alone.

Suddenly, he felt hands grip his shoulders and haul him up. Jack looked up, and stared blankly at the Reaper's bone-white mask.

“ _ **Stop this, Jack!”**_ the Reaper ordered, **_“You are hurting yourself!”_**

“I deserve this and more,” Jack mumbled, pulling himself out of the Reaper's grip, “I killed him. I killed Gabriel...”

“I'm right here, Jack!”

Jack looked up to see Gabriel's face under the Reaper's hood.

“Don't wear his face,” Jack ordered, a small spark of fury lighting up. It rang hollow.

“Jack...” Gabriel's voice sighed, “Stop torturing yourself.”

“You're not him.”

“But it was me, Jack,” Gabriel's voice soothed, “I remember. I had been banished from the formless void by my own people, Jack. They found it amusing to compress me down to a mortal body, make me be born into a human life. But it was just a facade. When you shot me, you didn't kill me. You freed me, Jack.”

“I don't believe you.”

“I remember how you cried,” the Reaper tried, almost sounding desperate, “How you held your hands over my wound. You tried to save me.”

Something in Jack snapped. “I failed!”

“You tried! I remember that! That matters! I remember what you said, too, as I was dying.”

“Stop it!” Jack yelled, flinching back when not-Gabriel reached for him again.

“You told me you loved me.”

“Shut up!” Jack cried out, pressing his hands against his ears, “I wasn't supposed to!”

“Says who?” Gabriel's voice growled, “The military? Who the fuck cares about them!”

“I killed you!” Jack blurted, shame and grief all but drowning him, “You died because of me! I don't have the right to love you!”

Arms circled around Jack's midsection, pulling close. Jack's face was pressed against Gabriel's shoulder and his familiar scent filled his nose. Jack closed his eyes, his throat tight with unshed tears.

“ _ **I didn't die, Jack,”**_ the Reaper said. Jack let out a watery laugh.

“I don't believe that. You're not him. You're just part of my imagination.”

“ _ **...I do not understand why you are so willing to torment yourself. I'm alive. I'm here. You cannot kill a god. I love you too, Jack.”**_

Jack pulled back from the embrace, already missing the warmth. He stared at Gabriel's beloved face, taking in the familiar lines around dark brown eyes, and the scars that skittered across tanned skin. It was too much. His heart couldn't handle it.

“Turn back,” Jack requested quietly. Gabriel nodded, and his body dissolved into black smoke before reforming into the Reaper's looming cloaked form.

“I don't know if I believe you. I can't. I killed you, Gabriel. I'm not worthy of love. And all of this? This cannot be real. This is just...this is just a dream.”

“ _ **Then I'll prove it to you. Do not despair.”**_


	7. Bulge

Jack woke up, feeling drained. He groaned. His dreams were getting stranger and stranger. He wondered if this was better or worse than the old nightmares.

The odd silvery orb was lying on his pillow again. He picked it up, turning it over and over.

“How did you keep getting there?”

The orb glimmered in the sunlight, beautiful. Jack shook his head and tucked it back into his pocket. Then he packed away his cigarettes, and hung his copeck around his neck. He headed outside. At first he thought about working on the dock again, but decided against it. He was running low on both food and money. He needed to bring in a haul of fish if he wanted to not go hungry.

He untied the boat, and began rowing it out to water. It was quite a lovely day out. The sun was out, but not harsh. The light glinted across the water, shining like jewels. Jack didn't pay attention to the beauty of it all. He was on a mission.

Hours passed, and Jack had little to show for it. Despair ate at his gut. A single gull fluttered down from the sky and landed on the stern of his boat. Jack rolled his eyes at it.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Jack grumbled at the bird, shaking his empty nets, “I'm terrible at this. I'm getting pretty desperate and hungry. If you're not careful, I'll have to eat one of you!”

The gull squawked in protest, taking wing back into the sky. Jack shook his head and went back to his nets. He wanted to catch something. He _needed_ to catch something. He was about to give up when a few dark shapes swam beneath the water near his boat. He threw out his nets, feeling hopeful. He pulled in the nets, half expecting them to be empty.

Instead, they were _bulging_ , the ropes straining against over a dozen sleek wriggling bodies. Jack crowed in happiness.

“Ha, take that little bird!” Jack cheered, already reaching for the oars to head back home, “No starving for me this week!”

–

Jack's good cheer lasted until he got inside the lighthouse and unwrapped his catch. While there were dozens of fish in his nets each and every single one was deformed.

They were all a good size; each fish was about the length of his forearm. But...their scales were a complete jet black, and their eyes were perfectly round pearls sunk into an elongated head. Sharp spines ran down the length of their backs, and they had angular fins. Most disturbingly, their mouths were not filled with teeth, but with pale fleshy tentacles that hung out like limp seaweed.

“Fuck,” Jack swore, unease curling in his gut. They were just like the fish he caught that had the silvery orb lodged in his belly. He hadn't noticed it with the first one, but with the tentacles hanging out of their mouths, their faces looked like the Reaper's mask.

“All of you better not be pregnant with orbs,” Jack muttered, waving a filleting knife at the pile of seafood. Suddenly, what he just said hit him, and he stared in horror at the pile of fish.

“Shit. Is that what that orb is? Is it a fucking egg?”

Jack shook himself. Surely he would have noticed if he was carrying around a damn egg everywhere. But then what the hell did he know? Tentacled fish were apparently real, and he had never known. But in any case, the silvery orb didn't seem to be alive.

He hoped.

Jack cut open the first fish, relieved when nothing unusual spilled out. However, nothing _usual_ spilled out either. No guts, no organs. They were empty, save for a bit of sea water. Jack tried not to let it bother him. He started filleting the fish, his knife rattling rhythmically against the bones. Cut away from the head and spine, the fillets looked almost normal, if you ignored the perfect pitch color of the scales.

Scowling, he took the extra time to cut the skin away, leaving perfectly normal looking cuts of fish. He wrapped them in a bit of butcher paper, and packed them away in the icebox. He continued with the rest of his haul. When he was done, he looked at the remaining spines and heads wondering if he should keep them for stock. In the end, he decided against it, and took the remains outside to leave for the gulls.

“Sorry for earlier,” Jack laughed as birds swept in to devour the offering, “I won't eat you, I promise.”

He headed back inside as the gulls fought each other over the choicest bits. For a moment he thought about eating a portion of his catch, but thought better of it and ate the last of his bread before going to sleep.

–

That night, Jack dreamed that he was walking down his dock. The sound of the waves crashing against the broken wood filled his ears. It was night time, the dark canvas of the sky crowded with stars and the moon shining boldly. He reached the end of the dock, noting that before him were a few posts that stuck up from the sea, indication that the dock once extended further out. A few of the posts were connected by a single board between them. Feeling adventurous, he jumped to the nearest post, clinging to the old wood tightly.

He jumped to the next one, then balanced carefully on a board that stretched between it and the third piling. Through this method, he reached the very end, all the way in the heart of the sea. He clung to this last post, letting the sea spray batter him. Part of him was convinced that if he looked back, the shore would be nothing more than a distant memory.

Suddenly, before his eyes, the Reaper rose out of the water, unimaginable large, and taller than Jack's lighthouse. The giant looked down at the poor tiny human with amusement.

“ _ **That doesn't look comfortable.”**_

“Who gives a fuck?” Jack laughed over the crashing of the waves, “This is a dream, yeah? I'm comfortable in my bed right now. You, this place...it doesn't exist!”

“ _ **You seem to be in a better mood.”**_

“I had a good day for once,” Jack suggested, “Now get down here! I can't talk to you like this.”

Jack blinked once, just to get the sea spray out of his eyes, and then suddenly, he was somewhere else. The ocean was gone. Instead they were inside what looked like an office. But instead of paper everywhere, sheets of colored light hung in the air displaying what looked like reports. Maps made up of more light shone against the wall. The desk seemed to be made up of glass panels. On the surface of the desk, there was a shimmering image of Jack, Gabriel, and a beautiful regal looking woman. Strange gadgets cluttered the desk. When Jack prodded one, it automatically folded parts of it outward, then then began emitting a warm pale glow. A futuristic looking rifle leaned against the wall. Jack gaped, trying to take it all in. It was as if he had stepped into an Asimov novel.

“Where are we?” Jack asked, running his hands over the planes of glass and marveling at the technological wonders around him.

“ _ **Somewhere we will be in a lifetime that does not exist yet. It will though.”**_

“That makes no sense,” Jack shrugged, “But this is a dream. It does not have to make sense, I suppose.”

There was a brief silence before the Reaper broke it.

“ _ **Do you have anything you want to ask me, Jack? I can sense your curiosity.”**_

“What's with the orb?”

“ _ **What orb?”**_

“Don't play dumb,” Jack said as he rolled his eyes, “The orb that was in that fish! You sent it didn't you?”

“ _ **Did I? I thought I didn't exist.”**_

Jack growled in frustration, his fists clenching tight as if he was expecting a fight. He had forgotten what a smart mouthed bastard Gabriel had been.

(Not that the Reaper was Gabriel.)

“ _ **It's an eye, Jack,”**_ the Reaper explained after a moment, **_“One of mine. As I am now, it is not so easy to enter the mortal realm. While you have my eye, I can see some of your life.”_**

“So you're spying on me?”

“ _ **I wouldn't put it that way.”**_

“It sounds like spying,” Jack grumbled, running his hands through his thin hair, “I should toss the orb back into the ocean. Forget it ever existed.”

There was a pause.

“ _ **Will you?”**_

“No,” Jack shook his head, “It was a gift wasn't it? I can't throw it away.”

“ _ **Mmm. Just like the copeck.”**_

“I...yes. Though I suppose now it's just...a memory of my sins.”

“ _ **It was supposed to be a gift. A token of affection. You were always curious about it.”**_

“I remember,” Jack murmured softly, feeling nostalgic, “That's how we—how Gabriel and I first met. He was doing tricks with it. I asked him to teach me. He gave it to me...he gave it to me as he died.”

“ _ **I always wanted you to have it, Jack. It fits you better anyway.”**_

Jack shifted uncomfortably and turned his gaze away from the Reaper.

“Speaking of gifts,” Jack began, clearly trying to change the subject, “I can't eat all that fish you sent me. Especially how disastrous it went that first time I tried to cook one.”

“ _ **Then sell them. Isn't that what a fisherman is supposed to do?”**_

“I'm shit at it, and you know it,” Jack said, a faint smile tugging at his lips, “Alright, I'll sell them. They don't look too bad cleaned up.”

“ _ **Good.”**_

Jack fidgeted again, that sense of unease returning. This dream, this _fantasy_ of his was getting too...ugh, Jack didn't even know how to put it. Tempting, perhaps. Half the time he was slipping into thinking it was real. It wasn't.


	8. Coil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earning more of that E rating this chapter

The next day, Jack felt rather good. His dreams were odd (and getting odder) but he was no longer waking up screaming. He supposed he could handle being around people today. While he hated going into town, especially so soon after his last uncomfortable visit, he wanted to sell his catch. He packed the prepared fish as well as he could, and headed out. He had a good feeling about today. Everything would work out.

However, he hit his first snag of the day speaking to one of the grocers.

“What do you mean you won't give me full price?”

“Exactly as I said,” the grocer replied coldly, “You're only giving me half the fish, I'm only giving you half the price.”

“The only thing you're not getting is the bones! I cleaned them!” Jack protested, “You don't have to do any work on them. If anything you should pay me extra!”

“Sixty percent.”

Jack closed his eyes, knowing he was out matched, but he tried his best anyway, “Seventy-five.”

“Take my offer, or get out of my shop,” the grocer snorted. Jack grumbled, but made the trade. He needed the money more than his pride. Vindictively, he hoped the fish screamed and smoked for that grocer as it had for him.

Jack headed back to the lighthouse, trying not to let his sour mood get the best of him. However, before he could make it out of town, someone threw a small rock at him, catching his attention.

There was a group of young men sitting beneath an awning passing a bottle around. There were three...no, four of them. They're singing songs, patriotic battle marches with lyrics about the glory of victorious battle. The music made Jack's stomach turn. There's nothing glorious about battle. He's spent too many nights seeing visions of war. The blood and pain...there's no glory in it.

He wanted to shut them up, but they were looking right at him as they sang, their sunken eyes daring him to make a move. They were spoiling for a fight. They knew it. Jack knew it.

Jack tore his eyes away from them. He had better things to do than to indulge in a bit of brawling with a bunch of brats.

“Morrison the Disgraced,” one of them sneered as he walked past them. Jack froze.

“What did you say?” Jack hissed, turning to face the group against his better judgment.

“You heard me,” one of the sneered, “We've heard tales of you. The failure. That soldier that can't shoot!”

Jack grit his teeth. When he had been young and more foolish, he would have wrapped his hands around the loudmouth's throat. But he was older, and supposedly wiser. He turned away from them again, intent on getting home.

An unfriendly hand landed heavily on Jack's shoulder. “Don't run away, coward!”

Jack snapped into action, years of training and real world combat driving his actions. He grabbed the young fool's arm, and bodily threw the brat over his shoulder. Not letting his opponent get up, Jack stepped on the idiot's hand, smiling grimly when he heard the bones _crunch._

“Get him!” came a roar behind Jack as the other men pounced. Jack ducked a wild swing aimed at the back of his head, elbowing one person's gut and stomping on their instep with a heavy boot. The younger man clutched hit stomach, and fell to the floor with a soft grunt. He kicked a second attacker's knee in, after sidestepping a clumsy punch. Another lunged at Jack, throwing quick punches and jabs that Jack countered and returned. However, Jack missed the punch aimed to his face, and stumbled back, pressing a hand to his eye. This last attacker pressed his advantage, his fists coming down hard and fast. Jack brought up his arms to defend his vulnerable head, but eventually he fell to the ground, half blind and battered.

“Not so tough now,” an arrogant voice taunted.

Idiot. Jack kicked out at the direction of the voice, smiling grimly when he felt his foot connect with something soft and tender. There was a soft groan and a thump. Jack looked up with his good eye and saw the last of his harassers on the ground clutching between his legs.

“Brats,” Jack sneered as he clambered to his feet, “Leave me the fuck alone.”

The four idiots just continued groaning into the dirt. Jack had little sympathy for them. They could drag themselves to a doctor; he left them with enough legs between them to manage that. No one else bothered him, so Jack dusted himself off and headed back to the lighthouse.

–

It was getting harder to tell what were dreams and what was reality when the Reaper was concerned. Jack knew for certain that he made it back to the lighthouse, his face and knuckles busted, his arms badly bruised. He knew that he sat down on his bed. What he was not sure about was if he had fallen asleep there.

He must have, because he's sitting in front of the Reaper getting his wounds treated. The Reaper had reached out with long taloned hands (the spidery fingers far too long for a human's) and had taken Jack's chin in a firm but gentle grip tilting Jack's face back and forth to assess the damage.

“They cracked your orbital socket,” the Reaper growled in Gabriel's voice, “Your face is completely swollen.”

“Shut up,” Jack hissed with little heat, “Stop using that voice.”

“ _ **You were reckless,”**_ the Reaper intoned in his grave-like voice, as his fingers skittered across Jack's black eye. Where the Reaper touched, flesh and bone mended. The swelling went down, and the bruising cleared up to a normal healthy pink. The bone fused back to its proper shape. Jack relaxed marginally as he blinked open both eyes.

“ _I_ tried to walk away,” Jack grumbled, “I don't have the patience to deal with kids.”

“ _ **I'll kill them.”**_

“I already handled them,” Jack scoffed, rolling his eyes, “They won't be a bother.”

“ _ **People like that will want revenge. I'll kill them first.”**_

“I don't need your help. Why are you so bothered about this?”

The Reaper growled, and shoved Jack down against the bed. The Reaper pinned Jack's firmly to the bed, leaning forward so that their bodies were touching. Jack felt his face flush, surprised but excited at the contact.

“ _ **You are mine!”**_ the Reaper snarled as he settled his weight more firmly over Jack's body, **_“The human worms don't deserve to touch you!”_**

“I'm a human,” Jack calmly stated, his blue eyes bright like lightning in a sea storm as he stared up at the Reaper's mask.

“ _ **Precisely,”**_ the Reaper said, **_“You get hurt so easily. Not just your skin and bones. But your heart, your soul, those are the most fragile parts. And you are already so damaged.”_**

“Let me go,” Jack said quietly, his voice flat. The Reaper rumbled low in his chest, displeased, but let Jack go in quiet acquiescence. Jack sat up, frowning. He missed the contact already.

“Fix my hands,” Jack demanded, holding out said appendages. He swatted the Reaper's talons away when the cloaked figure reached for him.

“No, use these,” Jack ordered, tugging lightly at the pale tentacles that streamed from the bottom of the Reaper's mask.

“ _ **Bossy little thing,”**_ the Reaper grumbled, but there was a hint of pride and pleasure in his voice, **_“I am a god.”_**

“You have no worshipers. Not even I worship you,” Jack retorted, smiling faintly as the Reaper obeyed and started curling the tentacles around Jack's fingers, healing the abrasions and bruises. Jack brought the tentacles in his hands to his lips for a few soft kisses, allowing himself the display of tenderness. Jack laughed at himself, trying not to feel guilty for wanting affection.

“Good,” the old god said in his human voice, “I have no need for sycophants.”

“Stop that,” Jack murmured, even as his breath ghosted over the Reaper's coiling tentacles. He then let the tentacles go, pulling away from their gentle grasp. He flinched away when the Reaper reached for him again.

“I loved Gabriel. I still love him. It's not fair of you to use his voice against me.”

“ _ **And it is not fair of you to refuse me my revenge, or to keep denying my existence,”**_ the Reaper countered.

“I suppose I can't deny your revenge since you're just a figment of my imagination,” Jack admitted flippantly, “You won't kill those men, since you don't exist. I—why am I even talking to you? I do think I'm going mad. I've been going mad for a long time.”

“ _ **Perhaps,”**_ the Reaper said, as he moved closer into Jack's space, **_“Now Jack, tell me, since this isn't real, why not indulge?”_**

“I don't deserve—”

“ _ **Dreams don't care about what you deserve, Jack. I know what you need. Let me show you.”**_

The Reaper held out a long fingered hand. Jack looked at it, feeling torn. He wanted to be loved. He wanted to pretend that for a moment that Gabriel wouldn't have hated him. The Reaper was offering everything on a silver platter. Jack's heart ached. It was too tempting. He took a deep breath then placed his hand on top of the Reaper's, taking the gift.

“ _ **Close your eyes,”**_ the Reaper ordered, as he drew Jack in close. Jack did so, then felt a little startled when he felt something heavy settle around his eyes and head.

“Trust me?” Gabriel's voice asked.

“Always,” Jack replied reflexively, his heart jumping, before scowling at the use of his dead friend's voice.

Jack felt hands rub against his back, soothing the tensed up muscles there. His shoulders slumped down, reluctantly releasing some of their tension.

“ _ **Lay on the bed. On your belly.”**_

Jack obeyed. The hands went back to their massage, rubbing out the knots in his back. Jack made soft appreciative sounds as his muscles loosened up. The hands seemed to double as Jack felt more touches against his body. Oh. Those were tentacles he realized.

“ _ **Relax.”**_

Jack hummed softly in acknowledgment. The soft massage continued pressing down his back, and then towards his ass. There was a tug against the waistband of his trousers. Jack lifted his hips in answer to the silent question, and he felt the fabric get pulled off his body, leaving his bottom half bare.

“Oh,” Jack gasped as he rubbed his swelling dick into full hardness against the bed sheets.

“ _ **That's it, Jack,”**_ the Reaper crooned, as he rubbed at Jack's ass, **_“Take it. It's yours.”_**

Jack groaned when he felt Reaper start swirling something slick between his ass cheeks. There was a firm pressure against his entrance. Jack tilted his hips up, chasing the sensation. Something thin and smooth just barely dipped into his hole, slowly stretching it out. Jack bit down on the soft whimper that threatened to escape him.

“ _ **You spoke of worship before,”**_ the Reaper murmured, **_“You say you don't worship me, but I will worship you.”_**

Jack moaned softly, burying his head in his arms. His face was flushed, and his cock felt heavy between his legs. The stretch at his ass continued, giving him a sweet burning sensation that caused his dick to jump and drool messily against the bed. Jack clenched his teeth, trying to will himself not to beg for more.

“ _ **I would worship the temple of your body. I would crawl inside of you and make my life there. I would eat you up. I would burn you out. Then, I would make you anew.”**_

“Yes!”

Jack gasped as his entrance was breached fully. The Reaper's cock or the Reaper's tentacle, Jack didn't know nor did he care. It didn't feel like anything human. All he knew was that it was thick and throbbing inside of him, grounding him and tethering him to the Reaper. He pushed back against it, smothering his cries into his arms as it filled him up. The Reaper let out a deep hungry sound that simultaneously made Jack's animal instincts blare out a warning and his dick twitch angrily.

“ _ **You are so tight, yet you invite me in so sweetly.”**_

Jack groaned back wordlessly, shoving back against the intrusion in his body then forward to slide his dick against the bed. It felt wonderful. He would have felt guilty for enjoying this pleasure, but his mind was too full of the Reaper and his offering.

“Please,” Jack whispered, feeling the heat in his belly grow molten and tight.

“ _ **As you wish.”**_

The thick protrusion pumping into his ass sped up, pounding him firmly to the bed. The bed shook with the force of the Reaper's thrusts, but Jack pushed back with equal fervor, the muscles of his ass clenching firmly. Again and again, their bodies met, and the heat inside of Jack threatened to boil over. His heavy cock rubbed against the bed every time the Reaper slammed into him. It felt so good, it felt _too good._ The pleasure coiled tightly within his belly. Jack writhed, feeling needy. He wanted...he wanted...

Finally, Jack snapped. He buried his face into his arms, swallowing his cries of bliss down as he came messily across the bed.

The Reaper continued to rock into him gently, taking in Jack's every shudder and soft moan as was his due. He pet Jack's trembling flesh as the human came down from the high back to earth. Jack sighed against the bed, completely spent.

“ _ **There you go, Jack. Sleep well.”**_


	9. Pearl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing to earn that E rating :)

Jack rose with the sun the next day. There was no more pain on his face or hands. When he stretched his hands in front of his face, the skin was whole and unbroken. They didn't even feel stiff. When he checked his reflection in his shaving mirror, his eye was no longer bruised and puffy. He looked normal. His eyes weren't even bloodshot. His muscles were sore, as if he had a good workout (or a good fucking, but Jack refused to think about it) but otherwise, he felt fine overall.

Jack sat down heavily on the edge of his bed. He had gotten into a brawl with some idiots yesterday. He was sure of it. That hadn't been a dream. But he showed no sign of the fight.

He glanced towards his pillow. The shining orb was sitting there like a pearl in an oyster. Jack picked it up, feeling unnerved. He rolled it between his hands, remembering what the Reaper had called it. It was an eye, and the Reaper could see Jack through it.

“Alright,” Jack whispered to the orb, his throat bobbing as he swallowed, “Maybe I'm starting to think that everything is not just a dream.”

Slowly, Jack started to get ready for his day. For a split second, he thought about covering the orb while he got dressed, but shook off the impulse. He wasn't quite ready to commit to the idea that his dreams were real, and refused to change his whole routine just because he was being shy.

Beside, a far more adventurous part of Jack pointed out, the Reaper had already seen Jack naked and more.

Jack's face grew red. He shoved the silvery orb into his pocket along with his cigarettes, determined not to let his flights of fancy get the better of him. He needed to finish repairing the dock today.

–

He was making a good amount of progress on the dock. Looking at the work left, he would probably finish it soon. Of course, there was nothing he could do about the end of the dock, where there were only mismatched posts rising from the sea. He didn't have the tools to make new pilings. But at the end of this project, he would have a nice well-built dock, even if it was a touch short.

“It's fine like this,” Jack told a nearby group of seagulls that were floating in the water, “I don't need for it to be very long. I only have one boat.”

The gulls looked up at him, their beady eyes unimpressed. Jack flashed them a quick grin.

“Alright, alright, I understand,” Jack said, holding up placating hands, “Less talking more working.”

“Morrison!”

Jack jerked, surprised to hear his name called out by a human voice. He turned and saw someone running towards him. It looked like the baker's teen-aged son. The birds squawked in protest at the stranger and Jack almost wanted to join them. He had been enjoying his privacy. Still, Jack let the boy approach, raising his brow in curiosity. This was the first time any of the townspeople had ever visited him.

“What is it?” Jack asked as the red-faced teen gasped tiredly. He looked like he had run the entire way here.

“There's been an incident in town,” the boy explained between tired puffs of breath, “You best come look.”

“What is going on?” Jack demanded, “And what would you need me for?”

The boy hesitated, clearly nervous.

“There's been a murder.”

–

When Jack made it into town, the baker's son trailing tiredly behind him, it was the first time all eyes had not being glued to him. Jack could easily see why. While it took him a few moments to push his way towards the front of the crowd, he could easily smell the scent of blood before he even saw it.

What lay before him was shocking.

Blood pooled heavily on the street. There were roughly four victims, but it was hard to tell the number considering their corpses had been ripped apart and scattered about. Heads had been ripped clean from limbless torsos. A few of the parts had been strung up between ropes in a grisly display. It clear as day that these bodies had been left out as a warning.

Jack's stomach turned when he recognized the faces of the dead. These were the idiotic men who attacked him the other day.

( _ **“I'll kill them,”**_ the memory of the Reaper's voice hissed, _**“People like that will want revenge. I'll kill them first.”**_ )

One of townspeople came up to Jack, their face solemn.

“What do you think?” they asked Jack.

Jack frowned in apprehension. “Why are you asking me?”

“You were a military man,” said the first, “You have seen the horrors of war. Tell us, have you seen anything like this before?”

Jack shook his head.

“No. Never. See the ragged edge of the...of the stumps? That doesn't come from a cut.”

The towns-person nodded in agreement. “That's what the butcher said.”

“Then what could have done this?” a hysterical cry asked.

“Their limbs were torn off from their bodies,” the butcher grunted, looking over to Jack who nodded his agreement, “Something strong did this. Something unworldly.”

Hushed whispers broke out from the crowd. Jack paid them no mind. He felt sick. He looked back at the bodies, trying to find some sort of clue that what he thought was wrong. (The Reaper didn't exist. It was just some hallucination that Jack's mind cooked up.)

Instead of being assured, Jack's eyes landed on a patch of skin on the exposed leg of one of the victims. There was a tattoo there of a very familiar tentacled skull mask.

–

Jack forced himself to go to sleep early. It took effort, since he wasn't very tired and his head was buzzing with questions, but it was the only way he knew how to contact the Reaper. He tossed and turned in his bed until finally, he drifted off to sleep.

Instantly, he found himself on a plain of ice and snow, the wind howling in his ears. His cheeks felt frozen, and his gun was in his hands. But instead of letting the nightmare take its usual course, he tossed the weapon aside and stood up, anger radiating from him.

“Come out and face me, you bastard!” Jack yelled at the swirling white storm, “You have some fucking explaining to do!”

The air rippled, and then the black-clad form of the Reaper stepped into existence. His dark clothing was a startling break in the constant white-out of the snowstorm.

“ _ **Here again, Jack?”**_ the Reaper sighed, sounding disappointed, **_“We should go somewhere more comfortable.”_**

The scene began to shift, color invading the white of the snow. Jack snarled, focusing his will. The snowstorm returned in full force.

“No!” Jack snapped, “You will explain yourself here.”

The Reaper tilted his masked head, looking like a curious bird.

“ _ **You truly are a fighter, Jack, and a stubborn old bastard.”**_

“Don't flatter me,” Jack grumbled, his eyes flashing with heat, “You killed those men. I said I could handle myself.”

“ _ **You also said that you would not deny my revenge since I did not exist.”**_

“Well obviously, you do!”

There was a pregnant pause of silence as those words sunk in. Even the howling storm abated, leaving everything quiet.

“Oh,” Jack breathed, his face opened and awed, “You exist. You're real.”

“ _ **Yes.”**_

Jack felt his legs turn to gelatin beneath him. He sat down heavily in the snow, his eyes still wide with wonder as he stared at the Reaper.

“You're real,” Jack said again, “That means...Gabriel?”

“Yes.”

Jack winced at the sound of _that_ voice.

“Sorry,” Jack apologized, looking down, “I'm not...I'm not ready for that yet. Can you...”

“ _ **Until you are ready, yes,”**_ the Reaper replied.

Jack nodded, grateful. Then he looked around himself, at the snow and the ice.

“Can we leave here?” Jack asked quietly, “I think I'm ready.”

“ _ **Of course, Jack,”**_ the Reaper replied, offering a too long hand to help Jack up. Jack took it and suddenly, they were somewhere else.

–

They found themselves in a field of corn. Jack looked up and saw a blue, _blue_ sky over head. There was not a single cloud in sight. Warmth brushed across his skin, a gentle caress. The stalks were bright green and taller than his head. He ran his hand through the plants, awed with how _real_ this dream was.

Though, it wasn't truly a dream, was it?

“Where are we this time?” Jack asked curious.

“ _ **Yet another place we will be in a lifetime that does not exist yet.”**_

“Still so cryptic,” Jack shook his head ruefully, “How do you know about this? Can you see into the future?”

“ _ **No. I am not all knowing. But sometimes I simply...have the knowledge.”**_

“Such as?”

“ _ **Things that do not exist yet or will never exist. There is no context, just information.”**_

“Give me an example.”

The Reaper chuckled, a dark dangerous sound. Suddenly Jack felt himself get pulled back into the Reaper's arms until his back was flush against the Reaper's body. Jack felt his face heat up when tentacles began curling around his legs.

“ _ **I know what you sound like screaming your pleasure.”**_

“That's not...” Jack began to protest, but he trailed off as the Reaper began to tug at his clothing.

“ _ **You're usually so quiet, Jack. But I know how loud you can get. Let me show you.”**_

Jack bit his lip, resolved to stay quiet. The Reaper chuckled amused at Jack's stubborn pride. He continued to pull at Jack's clothing, threatening to rip it.

“Just do it,” Jack mumbled, his face bright red.

“ _ **Oh?”**_

“These aren't my real clothes. You don't have to be careful.”

The Reaper laughed, and then tore into the cloth, leaving Jack nude. Jack's blush traveled further down his neck and chest. The Reaper nuzzled Jack with the hard edge of his mask, and trailed sharp talons just barely over Jack's quivering belly.

“ _ **This certainly feels real, doesn't it, Jack? Look at you...willing to be fucked out in the open like this.”**_

“Shut up,” Jack grumbled, even as his dick twitched and rose, becoming plump with blood.

“ _ **You like this,”**_ the Reaper purred, obviously pleased, **_“Fucking under the open sky.”_**

“Ah,” Jack breathed as the Reaper tweaked one of his nipples. The tentacles that had been around Jack's legs started coiling upwards, rubbing at the crease of Jack's hip and toying with his heavy ball sack. Jack bit off a little moan as his legs grew weak. A few more tentacles came up to brace him, curling around his body and providing support.

The tentacles continued to flick and rub themselves across Jack body, making his pant and squirm. He felt something wet rub against his taint, questioning. He glanced up at the Reaper's masked face and gave him a small nod.

Jack breathed out as he felt himself get breached, the tentacle worming its way into his hot insides. It was slim, no thicker than Jack's smallest finger, and carefully rotated to stretch him. The Reaper growled low in his chest, the sound shot through with the the deep hum of a whale-song. Jack smiled at him.

“More.”

The Reaper chuckled, shoving the tentacle deeper inside of Jack and letting it expand wider and wider until Jack was almost at his limit. Another wrapped itself around Jack's dick, squeezing the hard appendage gently. Jack gasped, throwing his head back. Oh, that felt _good_. The tentacle inside of him gave a little thrust, making Jack cant his hips. The Reaper copied the motion, drawing back a little more each time and thrusting back in fully, fucking Jack long and deep.

“Fuck,” Jack hissed, his voice rough with sex, “More.”

The Reaper set up a careful rhythm, fucking Jack like a metronome. He matched each thrust with a stroke to Jack's dick leaving Jack caught between thrusting up into the warm muscle coiled around his dick, or bearing down to the appendage in his ass. Luckily, Jack didn't have to choose, the Reaper gave both pleasures freely, eagerly. When the tentacle inside Jack's ass hit something that set off sparks in Jack's head, he let out a long drawn out moan.

“Therrrree,” Jack groaned, his speech slurred, but still hushed, “Again.”

“ _ **It's just you and me, Jack”**_ the Reaper soothed, as his tentacles thrust and rubbed, **_“You can be as loud as you want.”_**

“I...” Jack murmured, still hesitant, “I...”

The Reaper pinched one of Jack's nipples, drawing a soft moan from the human. The Reaper's thrusts became harder, the tentacle angling itself to hit the secret spot deep inside of Jack. It was positively _electric_. Another thin tentacle shoved its way into Jack's ass at the same time the one around Jack's dick twisted and stroked firmly, once. Twice.

Jack wailed as his hips thrust up into the hair, jerking wildly as his dick spat its load over his belly. The limbs inside of Jack and curled around his cock kept stroking, prolonging Jack's orgasm. Jack's cries turned up a notch as he screamed his pleasure to the skies. The Reaper crooned as Jack came, curling tentacles gently around the human. He pet at Jack's throat and jaw, pressing and licking like loving kisses. Jack's cries turned sweet, overwhelmed by the affection.

Jack slumped into the nest of the Reaper's tentacles, warm bliss buzzing in his veins. He felt a few tentacles curl over his belly, rubbing his spend into his skin. Another loosely circled his neck, rubbing gently. Jack let out a soft note of protest—his throat was sore from screaming.

“ _ **See, Jack? Just like that.”**_

–

Later, Jack was lying on the ground, still dazed with post-coital pleasure. He was sore and naked out in the open air, but he didn't care. The Reaper seemed perfectly composed, standing half in shadow as he looked at Jack's splayed out body. Jack turned towards him, trying to school his mind into some sort of order. There were serious problems they needed to discuss.

“We need to talk about those men you killed.”

“ _ **What is there to say? They are dead. They are of no importance now.”**_

“You didn't have to _brand_ those punks,” Jack mumbled, “You already left a clear enough message.”

“ _ **Brand?”**_

Jack hummed in confirmation, “The tattoo of your mask. You put it on those men you killed. I saw it.”

“ _ **I did no such thing,”**_ the Reaper scoffed, indignant. Jack blinked up at him, curious.

“Then why did they have it?”

The Reaper thought, considering the possibilities.

“ _ **I told you before there are others of my kind. I have...many siblings. And they do enjoy seeing me squirm. Like a worm on a hook.”**_

“Seems to be a rather petty game for them,” Jack said with a frown, “Even so, something strange is going on. I'm going to look into it tomorrow.”

“ _ **Don't be reckless.”**_

Jack laughed, “I'm just going to look at the bodies. I'll be careful. I need to make sure I get back to you, right?”

The Reaper was silent, but finally nodded in agreement.

“ _ **Very well. I shall speak with my siblings in the meantime. Be safe, Jack.”**_


	10. Moon

Jack knew he needed to get close to the corpses if he wanted to get a better look at the tattoo he had seen. He believed what the Reaper had said before, that he had nothing to do with marking the corpses. Now the question was why was that man marked in such a way?

The Reaper suspected another of his kind. Jack supposed that was the logical answer, but it seemed so...small and petty. Marking some human seemed like such a weak thing to do, especially since the Reaper hadn't even noticed.

No, something else was going on, and Jack wanted to know what it was, and if it was a danger to the Reaper.

(Some tired frightened part of him insisted that the only danger to the Reaper was Jack himself. Jack scoffed at the idea. What could a mortal like him do against a creature like the Reaper?)

Jack had decided to wait until nightfall to go sneak into town and inspect the bodies. So, he spent the day finishing the repairs on the dock. It was coming along nicely, and Jack was already making plans for trying to expend the length of it. As he worked, a small group of seagulls landed near him, obviously used to his presence by now.

“It looks nice, yeah?” Jack asked the gulls, as he tossed them some scraps from his lunch. The birds fought over the food, completely ignoring the human. Jack didn't mind. There was a warmth and lightness in his chest that made him...happy.

“It's getting better,” Jack mused, “Not just this dock but...everything. It's getting better.”

One of the gulls hopped a little closer to Jack, looking up at him curiously. Jack felt a smile bloom across his lips.

“He said he loved me,” Jack said, still a little awed, “It wasn't a dream...not really. It happened. He loves me.”

Jack felt his face redden when he thought about the night before. It had been...wonderful.

“Coming here truly was the best decision,” Jack murmured, “Things are getting better and I'm going to make sure it stays that way.”

The gull squawked at him. Jack blinked down at it.

“No, I'm not being reckless,” Jack protested, “Something odd is going on. Gab—the Reaper could have an issue on his hands. I'm just doing a little investigation. I need to put my mind at ease. After that, everything will be smooth sailing, yeah?”

The gull squawked again.

“Okay, okay,” Jack laughed and pulled out the last bit of his lunch. He tossed it to the bird who swallowed it down faster than he could blink.

“Just don't tell the others,” Jack teased, “They might think I'm playing favorites.”

–

Jack headed to town under the cover of darkness leaving the lit lighthouse behind him. He knew that the bodies were being held in someone's cellar since the town was too small to have a dedicated morgue. He had to take a look at them tonight before they were buried.

He located the correct home and picked the cellar lock, trying to be quiet. The whole town was dark, and everyone had to be asleep, but Jack didn't want to take any chances. The lock opened with a quiet _click_ and he slipped inside.

The cellar was pitch black on the inside. Jack grumbled under his breath, and searched his pockets for matches. But then his hand brushed against the smooth surface of the silvery orb. Jack drew it out, pleased to note that it was glowing in the darkness, giving him just enough light.

“Useful.”

Jack waved the light around, squinting in the dim light. He found the bodies, their jigsawed pieces placed haphazardly between two tables. They had been cleaned of blood, and their torn clothing removed. Calmly, he inspected the corpses, trying to find the tattoo again.

He found four. All four of the dead men had the same tattoo of the Reaper's mask. How curious. Jack touched one of the tattoos carefully inspecting it.

There was no redness or other irritation around the skin of the tattoo. The ink had faded a little, the lines less crisp. This tattoo was old. All of the tattoos were like that. Old and a little faded. They must have had them for years.

Jack frowned in confusion. Why did they have a tattoo dedicated to the Reaper? And why were the tattoos so old? Did they know about the Reaper? It didn't make any sense.

Then Jack noticed a set of notes lying by the bodies. The letters were neat, written in a steady hand. Curious, Jack brought the light over to read.

_...our god has awoken. Praise and glory to his name. These are but the first to sate his bloody hunger. We must provide him with more so that he shall raise us up and drown us down, giving us power and glory in the sea and stars within the circle of rings..._

“What the fuck?” Jack muttered to himself, feeling the hair rise on his arms. There was more to the text, but it simply continued to ramble on about in a depraved manner, becoming more and more incomprehensible. Unease settled in Jack's stomach. He needed to head back and tell the Reaper what he found. Whatever this was, it wasn't good news for either of them.

Suddenly, Jack heard a strange guttural word, and the light of the orb winked out, leaving him in the gloomy darkness. Something, no some _one,_ crashed into Jack, causing the orb to go flying out of his hand. He heard it land on the ground and then _shatter_ like fine glass.

“No!” Jack cried out, feeling the loss like a barb to his heart.

The Reaper wouldn't be able to see him, wouldn't be able to tell that Jack was in trouble. But more than that, Jack had liked the gift. It had been special—a token of the Reaper's affection to him.

Growling, Jack fought against the stranger grappling with him, but he was at a disadvantage. He had been taken off guard, and it was dark. And his opponent wasn't alone.

Jack felt more hands grab at him, wrestling him to the ground. Jack tried to twist away, but a blow to the head dazed him making him groan. He felt someone slap handcuffs on him, wrenching his arms back and securing his hands behind his back. Jack tried kicking out, but hands grabbed his leg, pinning it in place. There was a swift kick to Jack's side causing him to howl as pain exploded from the impact site.

There was a little more scuffling, and a few more hands assisting, before Jack was completely subdued. He was completely bound, ropes securely lashing his legs together, plus the manacles around his wrists. Even more ropes bound his arms to his torso, binding him tight. He could barely move.

“Take him to the beach, and call the others,” a voice ordered, “Our god demands blood, and he will have it!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that the likelihood of having a cellar so close to sea level is pretty small. But let's pretend for the sake of aesthetics.


	11. Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strap in for the feels.

Jack barely registered the cart ride from the town back to the beach in front of his lighthouse. Jack's head was spinning with panic, and his body was firmly bound. There were people guarding him, preventing him from escaping. Despair was churning in his gut. He was supposed to have been careful.

Once they reached their destination, they hauled him out of the cart and lashed him to the repaired dock, the faint spray from the lapping waves licking his cheeks. He turned his head to be faced with a crowd of people on the beach. He recognized most of the faces. Most of the town was here, their solemn faces gazing down at Jack.

“What is this?” Jack demanded trying not to let his panic show in his voice. One stepped forward, obviously claiming the title of leader. The leader had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing an old tattoo of the Reaper's mask.

“We are the Reaper's devotees,” came the answer, “Our god has slept, peaceful within the waves, for generation upon generation. Until now.”

Jack snorted, “That's not what he said. He was born as a huma—”

The leader slapped Jack across the face, cutting him off.

“Silence, heathen!” the leader snarled, “Your blasphemous lying tongue should be cut out of your head!”

“Elder,” a softer placid voice from the crowd murmured, “What of the plan?”

The leader sighed, suddenly calm and composed once more.

“Of course, of course,” the leader nodded, turning their attention back to Jack, “We are the instrument to his will. ”

For a moment, Jack simply stared. Cultists. The whole town was filled with cultists of the _Reaper,_ no less. He wondered if the Reaper knew. Probably not. The Reaper seemed uninterested in worshipers—had said so himself.

“Praise our grand and glorious god, Jack Morrison. You have been chosen for sacrifice.”

Jack sneered, “Are you certain that's a good idea?”

There were a few murmurings from the crowd.

“The arrogance!”

“Our god will punish him.”

“Blood...blood...”

“...But he was found holding an Eye of the gods...could he be...”

“Quiet, all of you!” the lead cultist snapped, silencing the crowd before turning back to Jack. He drew out a long dagger. The blade had been carved with mad symbols that hurt to look at. Jack struggled against his bonds at the slight of it, wishing suddenly that he could call the Reaper to his side. However, the strange being had only ever come to Jack in his dreams, and the orb, the Reaper's eye, had been destroyed. Jack had no way to contact the Reaper.

“We have seen that our god has awoken and he is hungry for blood!” the leader cried, brandishing the dagger to punctuate his speech, “We shall give an offering to him!”

“If you do this, he won't be happy with you,” Jack warned, trying to sound sure of himself. It had only been recently that Jack became confident that the Reaper's was real, having so much time doubting that the Reaper actually existed. Some faint part of him was still convinced what was happening was a bizarre dream. But he was certain this wasn't anything that the Reaper would have wanted.

(The Reaper was real. Gabriel was alive. And Jack was loved.)

“I think I know what our god wants better than you, outsider,” the cultist sneered. And then he plunged the dagger into Jack's gut.

Jack gasped, the pain sharp and sudden. He tried to twist in his bindings, but the sea-soaked rope held tight and dug painfully into his skin. The cultist twisted the blade, then dragged it through Jack's flesh, ripping and tearing. The scent of ocean spray almost drowned out the coppery tang of blood, but Jack could see the precious liquid spilling from him at a rapid rate.

The cultist pulled the knife out, Jack's flesh sucking wetly at the metal, then plunged the blade back in. The blade slid back up, carving into meat to scrape against bone. It was agonizing. And then the shock set in, and the pain became a distant, far off thing. Even so, the sudden finality of the situation had already sunk in.

Jack was going to die.

Jack squirmed, trying to keep fighting, but his movements were getting sluggish. His vision began to gray at the edges. His breaths...were growing short.

He was going to die.

Jack looked out upon the sea, noting how the dawn's light shone off the cresting waves. It was as if the water had been washed with gold. Beautiful. The scent of the salty water tickled his nose, and the cry of the gulls sang in his ears. He had never really noticed any of it before. Finally, Jack could see what exactly his old friend had been waxing poetic about when he spoke of the sea.

Jack murmured with his last breaths, “Oh...You were right, Gabriel. The sea is...very beautiful.”

–

Once the offering finally stopped moving, a member of the crowd stepped forth. They were dressed in a gray hooded robe, and held a thick tome in one hand. They handed it to the leader. After consulting the book, the head cultist dragged their hand through Jack's bloody wounds.

“We call upon you, our lord,” the head cultist intoned, painting incomprehensible symbols on the wooden dock with Jack's blood, “Come forth. Come forth!”

The spell was a certain thing. Nothing, not even one as powerful as the Reaper could deny a summoning like this. The very air shivered and warped. Reality bent and broke, and from the rending of space, the Reaper stepped forth.

A heavy silence followed, the air thick with tension, as the old god took in the sight before him.

“ _ **What is this?”**_ the Reaper demanded, his voice the gnashing of teeth and the deep gargling roar of a beast that lived in the deepest dark where even the light died.

“A gift, my lord, in exchange for your favor!” one of the braver, or perhaps stupider, members of the crowd said, gesturing grandly at Jack's bleeding body. The old god stared at it with all the intensity of a sea storm, taking in the ruby red blood and Jack's pale slack face.

“ _ **A gift,”**_ the Reaper echoed, the undercurrent of mad laughter and rage ringing in his words.

Most of those in the crowd nodded, eager to please their lord. The more intelligent of the group took a step back. They could sense the angry storm approaching their midst.

“ _ **Truly he is a grand gift,”**_ the god intoned, **_“And not one that was yours to give.”_**

The Reaper glided closer, his towering form seeming to expand higher and higher, becoming a ghastly titan that loomed over the pitiful mortals. His mask dissolved, revealing incomprehensible wonders and terrors. A miasma of fear oozed out of his monstrous form, so thick it was tangible. It gave a taste to the air, like a lightning strike and a fresh kill.

And then Reaper turned his true face to the crowd.

–

Later, when all the humans' cries were wrung from their throats, their flesh cleaved open, their empty eyes staring up in awe and horror to their god, Reaper folded himself back down to an almost human shape, his mask back firmly in place. He had spared not a single soul, rending flesh and spirit alike in his rage. The dying sunlight was now sinking below the horizon. The Reaper had taken his time seeking his vengeance upon the townspeople. And now...he was finished. He wandered back to the makeshift altar, and sat down next to Jack. Idly, Reaper began smoothing down pale hair, and wiped away a splatter of blood that had landed on Jack's cheek.

Reaper had never before understood Jack's despair. Jack's guilt and sorrow over Gabriel's loss had never truly registered in the old god's mind. He knew of the hollowness that lived in Jack's chest, but it had made little sense. It had seemed too senseless—too human—before, how Jack punished himself for something that he couldn't change. But now, seeing Jack laid out before him, red blooming over his chest...

Now, the Reaper understood.

“It wasn't supposed to be like this,” the Reaper confessed in Gabriel's voice, “And I refuse for it to be so.”

Almost gently, he scooped Jack's limp body up, and cradled the corpse close. Jack's head flopped against his shoulder. The Reaper carefully arranged Jack in his arms, distributing the weight evenly, and then walked towards the ocean, the water opening like a door to let him in with his precious burden. There, in the seat of his power, the Reaper leaned down, and _breathed._ He breathed life and power (the chaos of the void and the sea) into the empty shell in his arms. He shoved it down recklessly without a care.

Too much. Too much power.

“ _ **Foolish brat,”**_ hissed the Reaper's innumerable siblings who were scattered upon the dark emptiness between the stars and existed in a veiled reality far from human eyes, _**“You will die! For nothing!”**_

(There were rules that even the old gods must follow. Mortals _cannot_ be brought back from the dead.)

The Reaper gasped, the sound more human than anything he had ever uttered before. It...hurt. It _hurt_. It was true pain, given weight by reality. It was pain like how a mortal would experience it. Slowly, the warnings from his siblings faded from the Reaper's awareness. He couldn't hear them, nor could he hear the whale-song of sea's power, nor the humming madness of the void.

He tried to breathe in again, only to intake salt water. It flooded his lungs. His lungs? His lungs, impossible, he had no lungs, he was not...No. He was flesh and blood and bone. Like Jack. Like poor dead Jack.

He had wasted all of his considerable might on a futile task.

The Reaper (or was it Gabriel now?) choked, helpless bubbles burbling from his mouth. He was drowning. He was dying. He was dying to the _sea._

In his last moments, he looked to Jack. Jack looked so peaceful under the water, the blood bathed away by the sea currents. For once, Jack was truly free of his nightmares. His face was slack, his mouth faintly open as if for a breath—or a kiss. Gabriel gave it to him, pressing their mouths together as he passed along the last of his air to Jack. It was in vain. Gabriel held Jack closer as his consciousness began to fade.

The copeck still hung around Jack's neck. The bit of twine that held it in place came apart, letting the coin free. Even this deep in the water, the coin caught the shine of the sunlight piercing the surface of the sea. It gave Jack and Gabriel their last flash of light as their bodies sank into the dark together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue will be up tomorrow.


	12. Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end is the beginning. The beginning, the end.

It would be almost a century later by the time the old god came home again. Not that Gabriel would know. Not that Gabriel would remember.

The lighthouse was old, nearly crumbling. But that was to be expected, considering the building's age and the relentless beating it took from the elements. The Omnic Crisis was in full swing, lending to further damage.

Gabriel, a soldier once again in this new life, was sent to investigate. A futile endeavor, in his opinion. This whole town had been abandoned since the mid twentieth century, and there was no reason why the omnics would be interested some hole in the wall like this.

Still, orders were orders. He and his team had already investigated the nearby town—the whole place was empty, and every building looked to be in terrible disrepair. From what he had heard from the other nearby towns they visited, this whole place had been abandoned in the 1950s. No one could definitively say why the coastal town had been deserted. Some suggested that the whole place had been an old Soviet test site. An accident had taken place, and everyone was evacuated. Others said the town had been attacked. A more reasonable person explained that over-fishing was the culprit. Without food or a livelihood, the people had abandoned the town.

Gabriel's favorite story was that the town had slighted a monster from the sea, and the beast had rose from the water and got its revenge. It was a fantastical tale, not one that Gabriel believed for a second, but it was still a great ghost story.

Gabriel entered the lighthouse, stepping carefully over the tangled nets on the floor. A rusted harpoon leaned against one wall. The lighthouse was smaller on the inside than he expected. There was a kitchen and a bedroom, along with the lantern room on the top. There was a thick layer of dust on everything, and Gabriel found nothing of interest in either the bedroom or the kitchen.

He headed up to the lantern room. The beacon was obviously damaged, the glass from its lens smashed and scattered upon the floor. Again, there was nothing of importance inside the room, but looking out the window—fuck but that view was amazing. The setting sun fell across the ocean waves, turning the sea into something magical. Gabriel's grin widened when he noticed the light hitting a familiar head of pale hair down on the beach.

He jogged back downstairs, waving at his fellow soldier when he got outside.

“Jack! Hey Jack!” Gabriel called, “The lighthouse was a bust. You find anything?”

Jack turned to face him, his blue eyes crinkling as he smiled back at Gabriel. Gabriel was struck (not for the first time) with how handsome Jack looked with the sun beaming down on him. Jack was playing with something bright and shiny, tossing the small object back and forth between his gloved hands.

“Only thing I found was a souvenir,” Jack answered, tossing the item to Gabriel. For a second, Gabriel swore Jack had tossed him a fist sized silver ball, but what he caught was a small worn coin. Gabriel turned it over in his hands, curious. The coin had unfamiliar markings on it, and the issue date stamped on the metal placed it from being from the 1900s.

“It looks like an old Soviet copeck,” Jack explained, “It seems pretty old.”

“And probably fake,” Gabriel said, raising an eyebrow at Jack, “You don't really expect me to believe you just found a coin marked with my SEP number out here, do you Jack? Nobody would make a coin with a twenty-four denomination.”

“Okay, okay, you got me,” Jack laughed, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly, “I made it for you. I thought you would like it.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes, but a smile still teased the edge of his lips, “You're such a weirdo, Morrison. But...thanks. Come on. Let's head back.”

Gabriel began idly rolling the coin back and forth over his gloved fingers. It wasn't something he had ever done before, but it seemed right. The motion was smooth, as if he had practiced it a thousand times before. The silver edge of the coin glinted in the dying light. Gabriel found the sight of it was rather...nostalgic.

Jack smiled at Gabriel, and for a second it seemed as if his blue eyes were suddenly filled with the lightning of a sea-storm. The sea began to sing a whale-song laced with a promise of power. Not that Gabriel noticed. Only Jack could hear it, along with with hissing roars of mighty creatures that lived in the chaotic darkness of the void, far from human sight. He ignored them easily, his attention focused fully on Gabriel. Beautiful, oblivious, _mortal_ Gabriel.

Gabriel clapped a hand on Jack's shoulder, breaking the moment. Jack shook his head, clearing out the cobwebs of another life.

“You with me, Jack?”

Jack smiled, his whole face practically glowing.

“I'm always with you, Gabriel. Let's go. There's nothing else here.”

As they walked back, their shadows stretched long behind them. Jack's shadow curled and writhed protectively around Gabriel's properly static one, twisting with the ebb of the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me though the end! Hope you all enjoyed! Again much thanks to [ JolBalrok](https://jolbalrok.tumblr.com/) for being an awesome partner. Check out the artwork that inspired this fic, it's beyond beautiful!  
> Here's links if you missed it before:  
> [Here](https://jolbalrok.tumblr.com/post/186170264745/i-took-part-in-the-reaper76bigbang-this-year-and)


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